“Not for you,” Alexander agreed, nodding.
And Antyllus looked at Selene . . . and saw absolutely nothing in his wife’s face. Waited for her to respond. And when she said nothing, he sighed internally and prompted, “Selene, did it feel hasty to you?” A smile, trying to coax one from her, as well. I have been trying to make her smile, and keep her smiling, for months now. I thought I’d convinced her that I wasn’t a monster. And yet, every time I think I’ve made a step forward with her, I wind up two steps back again.
Selene shook her head and looked at the table. “I made the decision, Alexander,” she said quietly. “And Caesarion made it clear that I’d taken more than enough of everyone’s time in so doing.”
Antyllus grimaced with irritation. Caesarion had been abrupt about the whole thing. “In his defense, my lark, he was in the middle of dealing with an assassination attempt. I’d have been abrupt with us, too. If I’d been him, and not myself.” He waved a finger, pretending to do sums in his head. “I think that one added up, in the end.” He gave Alexander a glance, realizing abruptly, He’s still irked because his sister didn’t wind up marrying his friend. All it was, was a crush, Antyllus thought. Yes, we put Tiberius out a bit, but he was the one offended, not Alexander. And Tiberius clasped my wrist and offered me the gift of time and space to help clear her head.
He cleared his throat, still trying to mend ties. “Selene, why don’t you tell your brother a little about our travels? I’m sure he’d enjoy hearing about what you thought of the Scythians and the Sarmatians. Maybe something about the music you heard played along our route?” Stop punishing her, Alexander.
Antyllus watched Selene close her eyes. “The journey was very interesting,” she replied, her voice thin.
The words hung there, unaccompanied by any of their kin. Antyllus cleared his throat. “The mountains of Cappadocia were really beautiful, weren’t they?” he offered. “Still covered in snow in places, so we had to detour several times. One avalanche in a lifetime is enough for me.” He paused, and prompted again, “And the Sarmatians, lark? You seemed to enjoy the time we spent among them.”
“I found their weaving techniques very interesting.”
She kept using the same word, interesting, but her voice remained dull. Antyllus couldn’t decide if it was because Alexander’s distant attitude had hurt her feelings, or if she genuinely didn’t care. “Selene decided to keep one of the slaves they traded with us, mostly because the girl trained with their rug-makers.”
Social conversation was the lifeblood of Roman politics; when Romans met, they talked. For hours, usually. Antyllus could handle almost any group, but at the moment, he felt as if he were drowning in an ocean of silence. “Has been teaching the girl Latin, too. The rest of the goods we wound up with, besides the bows, I already sent to my father’s villa for storage. No sense, really, in dragging that all to Britannia.”
Alexander nodded, and looked once more at Antyllus. “It all sounds fascinating. Perhaps one day, you’ll write a book about your travels, Antyllus. Should be rather more accurate than Herodotus, so I’ll look forward to reading it whenever you get around to it.” He tossed his piece of bread, of which Antyllus didn’t think he’d eaten a single crumb, down on the table. “I really must be going. If you want to accompany me and my sister’s dowry back to Rome, we’ll need to take horse shortly.”
“And leave Selene here alone?” Antyllus returned, immediately. “I’ll hire a carruca for her.” He glanced across the table at his wife. “No need for a donkey so close to Rome.” He paused, and offered, gently, taking her hand in his across the table, “Of course, if we’re going so far as Rome anyway, perhaps you might just like to stay there for the campaign season? My youngest sister’s staying with my uncle, Lucius, until my father sends for her to come to Alexandria . . . oh, wait. She might already have left. Antonia the Elder married Lepidus’ son years ago. And Antonia Major, poor thing, was just married to Ahenobarbus.”
“Poor thing, indeed,” Alexander muttered. “Ahenobarbus is an ass.”
Antyllus grimaced. He hadn’t liked that particular match at all. “Ironically, my father only set that one up, because you were set to marry Octavia,” he noted. “Otherwise, you could have been my brother-in-law twice over, Alexander.” He turned back to Selene, ignoring Alexander’s slight snort at his words. “I expect she’s in Britannia herself by now. You must remember her.” Antyllus paused, drawing a blank.
“I remember her,” Selene confirmed dully. “I’ve lived in your father’s house the past three campaign seasons.” She paused. “She’s very kind. Always cheerful.” Another pause, as Selene clearly dredged up more words. “She had a garden of medicinal herbs in the peristylium.”
Antyllus’ mind churned, trying to take into account the need for a sudden change of plans. Selene can’t stay in the family villa all by herself. Father stripped it down to a skeleton staff, sold off the slaves he didn’t want to take to Egypt, and all that. It’s being maintained, but she’d rattle there, like a single pea in a very large pod, on her own. “I’m sure my uncle would welcome you, Selene. He has daughters, after all.”
“Your uncle Lucius?” Selene repeated, her tone dispirited.
“He’s Tribune of the Plebs again this year. Lots of socializing, lots of dinner parties—“ Antyllus paused. Which she hates. He glanced at Alexander, who stood by the door now, his eyebrows raised. “Alexander once offered to look after you in the absence of the rest of your family,” he suggested slowly. Though gods know, his tone hasn’t been welcoming so far today. “It’s an option.”
And to his shock, a tear trickled down her cheek. “I hate all the travel,” Selene admitted, her voice dull, her eyes fixed on the table in front of her. “I hate the fleas, I hate the food. I hate being sick from the food, and from the movement of the ships. I hate being exhausted and hurting at the end of every day. I know it’s all an adventure for you,” she added quietly, “and that you enjoy every minute of it. But I hate it.”
Antyllus’ hand convulsed on hers, and he was acutely aware of Alexander’s eyes on them. “Lark, why didn’t you say something before now?” he asked, his voice gentle as he walked around the table to crouch beside her.
“There isn’t any point in complaining when there’s no place else to be but where you are.” She scrubbed at her face for a moment. “Complaining wouldn’t have magically brought me back to Rome.”
“Fleas?” Alexander muttered, clearly stuck on a previous comment still.
“Happened in one inn in Syria,” Antyllus shot back tersely. “I don’t have a network of social contacts in the eastern provinces, so we couldn’t stop over at various nobles’ houses. I’d have gone over to sleeping just in our tents, but I didn’t want Selene to miss the comforts of baths and such for too long.” He reached up and touched Selene’s face gently. “Lark, is it just the travel? Don’t I treat you well?”
Her eyes flicked up from the table. “No, you’re always very kind to me,” Selene replied earnestly. “You’re kind. Brave. Strong. Smart. You go out of your way to . . . show how fond you are of me. You’re reasonable and rational. So much so that sometimes, I wish you’d just yell at me, because them I wouldn’t have to feel so guilty at . . . being how I am.” She closed her eyes. “I’m nothing that you’d have wanted if our parents hadn’t made such a fuss. I’m not brave. I’m not . . . adventurous.” The words, now that she’d finally started saying them, welled out of her. “You’ll be disappointed in me if I don’t go with you—“
“Most women don’t go with their husbands into the field. I won’t deny that I’ve always pictured my wife being with me, the way my mother went with my father, but if it makes you this unhappy, of course, you don’t have to come with me.” Antyllus shrugged a little helplessly. What else can I possibly say?
“See? You’re so reasonable,” she said, her voice catching. “Why don’t you ever yell?”
“My mother and father yelled at each other all the t
ime. Never seemed to solve anything, though my father looked as if he’d been kicked by a mule when she died.” He picked up her cold hands in his, rubbing the palms gently with his thumbs. “I want you with me. But I’ll survive if you don’t come along. I’m not even one for camp followers, so you don’t even need to worry about that. You can stay in Rome. We’ll work something out.”
She didn’t look up. “I don’t want to stay in Rome,” she admitted, and that confused Antyllus to no end.
“But you just said—“
A snort from Alexander by the door reminded Antyllus that his brother-in-law remained in the room. But before he could ask for privacy, Selene said rapidly, as if trying to get the words out all at once, “I wouldn’t be any happier in Rome, sitting in your uncle’s house with strangers, or in the Julii villa that I know isn’t my home anymore. I . . . do like being with you.” Her voice faltered.
Well, that’s at least something, Antyllus thought, only to have the thoughts erased by her next words. “You haven’t done anything wrong, Antyllus. It’s me. I’m wrong. And I can’t seem to fix myself. I have tried. I just can’t seem to be happy, no matter how I tell myself that this was the right decision. That I should be grateful for what I have. For your kindness. For the fact that you’re . . . you’re fond of me.” She swallowed again. “And now I’m pregnant and I’m just going to be sick and tired even more of the time.”
Antyllus stared at her, stunned by the depth of the unhappiness in her, as well as by her final words. This was not how he’d ever imagined hearing that particular piece of information, as tears slipped from his wife’s eyes. “Pregnant?” he repeated, a little dazed. He was elated by the news, but he could see that she wasn’t. “How long have you known?” he asked, wanting to wrap his arms around her, but not knowing if she’d even accept it at the moment. He settled for touching her hair, gently.
“A week or so. I’ve never been late before. Ever.” She shook her head. “I feel like I should drag myself back to Egypt and shove the baby in my mother’s arms and ask if she’s finally happy with me, since nothing else I’ve ever done has pleased her.” She swallowed, her throat working for a moment. “There are days that I wish I weren’t who I am. Not a Julia. Some days, I wish I had never even been born.”
“To Dis with your mother,” Antyllus told her firmly, and gave up, standing to wrap his arms around her. Trying to warm her with touch. She did say she liked being with me. That’s . . . something. I’ve known something’s been wrong for a while now, but this is the first she’s actually talked about it. “She gets about as much say in anything in your life now as the corner flower vendor. Look, it. . . “ Doesn’t matter to me where you are, so long as you’re happy, didn’t seem the right way to say what he needed her to understand. “The most important thing to me,” he said, adjusting the phrasing with a diplomat’s care, “is that you’re happy. I have to go to Britannia. No choice in the matter. I will say that a castra is basically a walled city, love. I wouldn’t be asking you to come into forward areas with me.” He kissed the top of her head, his own mind churning. “Once we get there, you’d be staying in one place for weeks or months at a time. There will be other wives there, and their daughters. Even one of my sisters, as I said.” He paused. “And sometimes, it feels like you can’t get away from the sound of bawling infants in a castra, because between the wives and the, ah, sweethearts of the men, someone always has a new baby. Plenty of medici and midwives on hand, in other words.” Now wasn’t the time to mention how often the ‘sweethearts’ of the enlisted men tended to be natives of a given area. Who gravitated to the walls of the castra for both safety and food. “I’ll leave it up to you, though. I’d definitely prefer to have you with me. But seeing the woman I love miserable isn’t really what I want out of life.” I can’t do better than that. I can’t leave the military in the middle of the campaign season for no better reason than an unhappy wife. I need at least another three or four years before floating my name for quaestor.
She’d looked up at that last. Not really a sparkle in her eyes, but the beginnings of relief, he thought. “So . . . only a few more weeks of travel?” Selene said, quietly.
“Shouldn’t be more than that, no. Not for a bit.”
“Then I’ll go with you. And I promise that I’ll try to be better.” She swallowed. “I don’t know why I can’t just manage that on my own.”
Antyllus kissed her hair again. “Some people are melancholic by nature. I don’t think you are, though. But I’m not sure how many times I have to remind you that I’m not a monster. Talk to me before things build up in your head.” He sighed, and then abruptly realized that Alexander had tactfully withdrawn from the room at some point. “Let me go deal with your brother. I’ll be right back.”
Outside, Alexander appeared to be getting ready to head back to Rome. Antyllus caught him just as he swung up into the saddle. “Leaving me here without getting my signature?” he asked the younger man dryly.
“I’ll consider that you’re a man of honor, and won’t try to say that we never delivered the coin,” Alexander said, turning his horse around to face east now. “You’re doing a good job with Selene.”
Antyllus blinked. The words of approval, given Alexander’s clear antagonism towards the marriage, meant something. “I’ve never had to work so hard in my life to make someone smile,” he admitted. “Besides Octavia, who didn’t smile on principle. It’s . . . draining. I don’t suppose you know how it feels, though.”
Alexander gave him a look. “Have you ever met Tiberius?” he asked, dryly. “He’s a confirmed melancholic. With quite a bit more reason than Selene, given all the shit Octavian did to him. The weekly beatings with a stick, administered by one of the slaves, weren’t even the half of it.” Alexander’s eyes met Antyllus’ steadily.
“Octavia felt that firm discipline was necessary, too.” Antyllus grimaced. “But Father usually backed me up. Hate to think what life would have been like if Father hadn’t been there.” Of course, all I need to do is look at my brother Jullus, and I can see some of the results.
“My point was, I’m used to dealing with his periodic bouts of self-loathing and working him out of them. Most of which have to do with feeling he isn’t living up to some impossible ideal of honor and duty. I haven’t a clue what Selene’s upset about, beyond the travel. Which is annoying, yes, but necessary if you want to get from one place to another.”
Antyllus shook his head. “Honestly?” he said, with a flash of insight that surprised him. “You, Alexander, are angry at quite a bit of the world. You’ve said, in my hearing, that there are days that you hate Rome for what its people make you have to do. Imagine how much anger there must be, locked up in Selene. Three brilliant older siblings. And the only gifts she has, are ones that women of her social class can’t express. She can’t go on a stage to play her music—not that she has the temperament for public performance. She can’t go into trade, though her weaving’s good enough that she could have, if she’d just been born a plebeian, not a patrician. None of you have looked twice at her since your father died—and he was the only one who called her his lark.” A name I’ve picked up for use on her. Maybe I shouldn’t use it. Maybe it impinges too much on the sacred memory of her father. I’ll ask her. “She’s angry and resentful, and she has absolutely no way to express it.” Antyllus paused, putting it all together in his head. It made perfect sense. “Gods, Eurydice used to comment that Selene resented her. Didn’t give her the proper respect; Eurydice wouldn’t tolerate it, so Selene stopped showing the resentment. Did everything in her power to please Eurydice since then. Striving to please others is the very definition of a phlegmatic, not a melancholic, I might add.”
“This is just a fit of the sulks, then?” Alexander said, raising his eyebrows.
“No,” Antyllus replied, wanting to shake Alexander for a moment. “You’re angry at the world. But you can fight. You can send your agents across the known world to deal with people who irritat
e you. People call you Cerastes, and step out of your way. She said she wished I’d yell at her. So she wouldn’t have to feel guilty about being . . . angry and resentful. And being a woman, she can’t really grab a sword and ride off to battle. So all the anger she can’t direct out at the world, she focuses on whoever she can. Me, but it makes her feel guilty. Or on herself. Till she wishes she’s never been born.”
Antyllus wondered if it was just his desire to be a diplomat talking, or if it had something to do with being several years older than either Alexander or Selene . . . and detached from the problem. “I don’t yell. I don’t particularly get angry, unless it’s a matter of life or death.” He shrugged. Even when I kill in battle, it’s a distant thing, most of the time. A bow in my hand, a hundred feet from my target. Usually, so many arrows in the air that I don’t know if mine hit anything till I go out afterwards to retrieve them, and find my fletchings lodged in this body or that. There’s nothing visceral in archery. There’s just calmness. “Seems to me, she needs my help to get rid of some of the anger. And that will, in turn, balance her body’s humors, and the fits of melancholia should pass. Doubt we’ll even need to talk to a medicus about leeches or black bile or whatever else.” None of which seem a good idea, given her pregnancy.
Alexander just stared at him for a moment. “You’re a sanguine,” he accused, after a moment, but he shook his head and a smile escaped him.
Antyllus shrugged. “Takes one to know one. I’ll pass your, ah, condolences on to Tiberius and Drusus, as you requested.” He knew of the strained relationship between Livia and her sons, and thus, his words held a certain politely dubious tone. “Safe journey back to Rome.”
Children of Tiber and Nile (The Rise of Caesarion's Rome Book 2) Page 43
